


Tea and Nightmares

by Shaedero



Category: Lockwood & Co. - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Comfort and Tea, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Lucy and George bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8625964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaedero/pseuds/Shaedero
Summary: Lucy and George share a moment of recognition for each other's spoken nightmares and concerns. Bonding and playful banter ensues.





	

When my vision cleared I was standing in a field. Thick frost coated the grass, sparkling and eerily beautiful in the dim light. All colour seemed to have drained from the world, leaving it pale and listless. In the distance large trees with sprawling branches stood silently, white and dead as bone. Inky black skies stretched above me, littered with wisps of white. It was very quiet. 

I looked down. 

I was wearing the spirit cape, enveloped in its comforting bubble of warmth. Curls of blue fire smouldered gently along the hem, intricate patterns of frost twirled lightly upon the fabric. The feathers and silver links tinkled quietly in the shifting atmosphere, producing an airy, musical sound. 

I gazed silently around me. I didn't feel any emotion; it was all muted and distant, a quiet calm that settled over me and left me blank. I was merely an observer in a foreign world, watching and pondering. And yet, one silent, deafening  _ feeling _ that wasn't mine permeated the scene. It gathered around me, searching for a way into my heart, lingering in my periphery: loneliness.

The barren world held not a soul; it was completely empty. Empty and  _ sad.  _ A light frown creased my brow.

Suddenly, a sense that something was missing emerged from the back of my neutral mind, disrupting the peace. At once things clicked into place, leaving a single question echoing through my consciousness: where was Lockwood?

I glanced around quickly, shaking off the numbing trance. He should've been here with me. We were to face adversity together. So where was he?

My defences wavered. Loneliness seized me, worming its way into my core, leaving my head spinning and feet unsteady. I staggered, hand flying to my brow. 

Biting cold sunk its fangs into my arm. I cried out in pain, retreating under the safety of the silver. I watched with horror as the edges of my cape flared bright blue, then began to burn away. Slowly, centimetre by centimetre, the fabric receded, shedding feathers and exposing my boots. I looked around wildly, searching desperately for a solution as cold began to seep into my limbs.

The world seemed far more sinister now. In the distance I could make out shapes growing steadily larger, coming closer. They weren't friendly.

I wanted to force my legs into action, to run far away and not look back. But that familiar slow, thick atmosphere weighed me down, as though I were fighting through molasses. I couldn't move.

Panic gripped me, my heart raced. I crouched low to the ground, trying in vain to preserve warmth as the cape steadily burned away. Taunting whispers of the dead surrounded me, pressing ever closer. Icy cold held me in its bitter grip, tearing the breath from my lungs. Tears swelled, forcing their way down my cheeks and freezing to my face as my defences were ripped away. It all crashed down on me, seizing my flame of life, snuffing me out like a candle. 

I flew upright, a gasp bursting from my throat, scrabbling at my covers. I glanced around as the brightness of my dream faded, the familiar attic bedroom coming into focus. I remained there, knuckles white, shaking with unsteady breath and hair sticking to my sweaty face, willing myself to calm down. Slowly my breathing returned to a normal pace and I began to untense, releasing the covers from my death-grip. I put my head in my hands and remained there. Outside the ghost-lamp flared, shining through the gable window and bathing me in white light, then fell into darkness once more. It repeated this four times before I finally willed myself to move.

Padding into the tiny bathroom, I splashed cool water on my face and gazed at my reflection. I was greeted by a pale visage with red splotches dotting the cheeks, eyes tired and dull. I looked terrible. 

Flicking off the light, I returned to the room and donned my housecoat. Sleep was no longer an option, so it was time to resort to the next-best thing: tea.

It was pitch-dark outside, and the clock in the study read half-past three. I walked silently into the kitchen and began the preparations for the ultimate drink of comfort. The steady, simple process allowed me to ignore any darkening thoughts, lulling me into its habitual routine.

“I'll have some too, if you don't mind.”

The voice startled me so badly I spilled scalding water onto the counter from where I'd been pouring it. I cursed.

“Oopsie. Here, let me help with that.” George emerged into the kitchen, taking hold of a dish towel and mopping up the little puddle of water that had been spreading dangerously across the surface toward me. I returned the kettle to the stove then plopped another bag into the teapot. 

George and I waited in companionable silence until the tea was finished. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence, this shared inability to sleep. Our line of work dealt with horrors that no other job faced, so it was only natural that nightmares ran rampant in the minds of agents. We were jaded to hauntings, sure, but the danger that set our hearts pounding and movements jittering often bled into our subconscious, alighting our dreams with terror no matter how badly we needed rest. We deemed this condition similar to how war veterans experienced nightmares from their time in service, and even Lockwood suffered it from time to time. For George and I, however, it appeared far more common. 

We sat at the table, steaming cups of tea in hand. I sipped gingerly, the hot liquid scalded my tongue. I continued anyway. The soothing aroma and familiar taste steadied my frayed nerves, bathing me with comfort. George's presence helped enormously as well. I glanced at him from over my cup.

His sandy hair was tousled and hung over his eyes, behind the round spectacles. His cheeks were slightly puffy, as though he'd spent a good deal of time rubbing them. He gazed ponderously at the table before him, then looked up at me.

“Was it about the Other Side again?” He asked, blue eyes searching mine.

I nodded, allowing the warmth of the teacup to seep into my palms. “You?”

He shrugged. “Wasn't a nightmare so much as restlessness. Just been thinking a lot is all.” His face, as always, was difficult to read, but I felt I could detect a hint of apprehension. Rather than pry too much into what was bothering him, I divulged the details of my dream. 

“Sounds like it was a bit different from the other ones,” George said once I'd finished.

I nodded. “Usually I feel helpless, or just plain scared. But this loneliness...it felt like I was being suffocated by it. That I'd never know the warmth of the living again.” I shuddered and took another sip of tea. After a nightmare it was always difficult to separate my mind from the dream, to not fall straight back into it and continue the dreadful experience. It was why I needed the comfort of tea and a companion. 

“Blimey. Maybe this is a side effect of all those months alone with the skull,” George stated.

I rolled my eyes. “I  _ did _ happen interact with other people, you know. It's not as though you guys make up my entire world.”

“Sure about that? After finally talking to you again, Lockwood said it looked like you hadn't seen the light of day in weeks. That you had crazy eyes.”

“He did not.”

“Did too.”

I sighed, tapping my fingernail against the table irritably. “The point is, this dream was a bad one. All right? But it's just...it's been weeks since the last one. I thought I was over it. And it was just so  _ vivid _ ….” I broke off, biting the inside of my cheek. There was a silence.

“You know, I've always fantasised about going to the Other Side, about communicating with the dead,” George began slowly. He'd grown sombre again. “Obviously I know that it'd be dangerous, but the fact that you guys actually went though it and the experience left you so affected, even months later...makes me wonder if I really should continue that dream.” He said it casually enough, but the way he stared blankly at the table and the slight pause in his voice gave it away. 

George had always been morbidly fascinated with the Problem, that much was obvious to anyone. He'd made it his life goal to study it, to learn as much as he could from it and record every bit of knowledge he attained. Lockwood and I had always shook our heads and left him to his devices, writing it off as a quirk and not quite understanding him. He wanted more than anyone to uncover the truth, to know  _ why,  _ and to know  _ how.  _ It was entirely unintentional, yet I couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt whenever I thought about how Lockwood and I had been the ones to step into the Other Side, while George had been left behind. He more than any of us should have been able to experience that-- not to be in danger, mind, but to see it and learn.

But here he was, questioning his dream. Maybe it was a result of that famous sarcasm, but George could conceal his innermost concerns remarkably well. After Lockwood and I had imparted to the rest of the company what had happened in that iron circle, he'd been entirely supportive and unquestioning. But now, as I looked at him staring uncertainly into his tea, I could tell what was eating at him: not jealousy for what we'd experienced, but concern. He was concerned as to whether or not he should be so inquisitive about the Other Side when Lockwood and I had barely escaped from it with our lives.

Now, anyone who knows me would also know that I'm generally not one to give comfort, but looking at George, uncertain and discouraged, I was bloody well going to give it a try.

“Hey,” I began. “You know how Lockwood and Company got this far, right?”

George glanced at me. “By tangling ourselves up in every single conspiracy that came our way?”

“Well, that too. But it was mainly because we followed our dreams. We didn't give up, no matter how tempting it was. Lockwood made sure of that.”

He sighed. “All right, I'll hit the pause button right there. I got it. I won't give up because the Other Side is something I knew all along: dangerous. I won't give up because it's easy to just quit. And I definitely won't give up because we happen to have the most terrifying lady in London breathing down our necks and trying to make us do just that.”

I cracked a smile. “See? You're brilliant at this. Sometimes a moment of weakness is all you need to get the worries out and find your footing again.”

George grunted. “Well, I won't make a habit of it. Don't worry, come morning our discussions will once again be eloquently expressed through flying saucepans, as they should.”

I chuckled. “Wouldn't have it any other way.”

Indeed morning came, and it was Lockwood who found us there, slumped on the table and snoring peacefully, bathed in sunlight. Later he told us that we'd had the most loony expressions on our faces, and the growing pool of saliva left him concerned for the table’s integrity. For the time being, however, he let us sleep in knowing silence.


End file.
